


The Adventure Of The Bogus Laundry

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [24]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Codes & Ciphers, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Laundry, M/M, Robbery, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 10:22:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15071135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A laundry list and some washing instructions that are more than they seem, leading Sherlock to the hiding-place of a robbery cache.





	The Adventure Of The Bogus Laundry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wamadeusm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wamadeusm/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

This small but curious little adventure happened just after the one documented case from that year of 'Eighty-Six, _The Adventure Of The Beryl Coronet_. My brother Sherlock still seemed to believe that the good doctor was as much at his beck and call as when they had shared rooms together, judging from his complaints to me when Watson did not always immediately respond to his requests (demands) for assistance. I considered Mrs. Constance Watson to be a lady of some forbearance, but I could still see that there might be trouble one day.

Talking of laundry, Kean and I attended a costume party the other night – and I only discovered at the end of it that he had spent the whole evening wearing nothing underneath his bedsheet-cum-toga! Our carriage ride back was a fast one!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

I had by this time in our acquaintance realized that Holmes did not hold the Metropolitan Police Service in any high regard. There were however some officers he deemed worthy of his assistance and amongst those was Inspector George Lestrade, a bluff fellow in his mid-fifties who (I had to agree with Holmes) probably obtained his successes more through tenacity than any great intellectual gifts. On the other hand he was always grateful when Holmes assisted him and then allowed him to receive the credit, which was a point in his favour.

I had had a patient in one of the many side-roads off Baker Street and had called in on Holmes on the off-chance he might be there. We had spent a pleasant half-hour talking over various matters when the inspector called, looking unusually fraught.

“I was hoping to catch you, sir”, he said, mopping his brow. “There's been a robbery at Pettigrew's in Duncannon Street, just off Trafalgar Square. The bastards have got Lady Meryton's diamonds!”

I winced at that. Lady Meryton was one of the ladies-in-waiting to Her Majesty, a rich socialite who was often seen around the city at one social function or another. To give her her due however she also did much good work for charity and was a strong supporter of woman's suffrage. She would doubtless be devastated by the loss, although hopefully the necklace had been insured – in which case the insurance company would be devastated by the loss!

The inspector took a chair.

“As I am sure you gentlemen are awares”, he said, “the Metropolitan Police Service sometimes lends its officers out to private institutions like Pettigrew's for certain very important matters.”

For certain very welcome fees, I thought dryly. I frankly disapproved of our capital's constabulary whoring itself out like that, but I supposed that it kept down the taxes that paid for them.

“Recently Pettigrew's decided to expand by building two new branches, one the other side of the City and the other in the West End”, the inspector said. “Naturally that meant a lot of money being moved about, and the company hired both our men and a private company to reassure their clients. Who as I'm sure you appreciates, are some of the top brass in the city.”

“Two of my constables were on duty each day, for the physical presence on the branch floor. At five when the branch closes the private security people come in, and once they're settled my boys leave.”

“Who are the officers that you assigned to this task?” Holmes asked.

“Devereaux and Mills”, the inspector answered. “Both good, fit young fellows. So, to the events of last night. The bank closed at five o'clock as per usual, and my men left at twenty past. The two watchmen, Mr. Mark Darby and Mr. Theobald Molyneux, had as usual arrived fifteen minutes before closing; they live near to each other and share a cab in. At approximately seven o'clock they heard a muffled explosion and hurried down to the safe-room. I should say that even with their keys there is a complex security system that renders it impossible to access the room in under three minutes, so it was at least four after the explosion when they finally got in. They found a hole had been cut through the wall connecting to the basement next door and several safe-boxes had been forced open.”

“And there is no clue as to who stole the diamonds?” I asked.

“Oh, we have the man already”, he said.

We both looked at him in surprise.

“Then why are you here, Lestrade?” Holmes asked.

“Because in the time it took us to track Mr. Michael Bullen down he got rid of the diamonds, and we have no idea where!” the constable groaned. “And the evidence we do have against him isn't much. We can hold him for a week before charging him, but if we have to let him go, we cannot watch him twenty-four hours a day on the off-chance that he leads us to them.”

Holmes thought for a moment.

“If he is charged and goes to jail”, he said, “is there anyone outside that he might trust with the location of the gems?” 

“He does have a son”, the inspector said. “Name of Paul, just turned eighteen and lives over in Stepney. I asked for someone there to go and check him out; they sent back to say that he is away visiting a friend in Essex but is due back tomorrow afternoon. The mother died six years ago.”

“Did the local constable check his house at all?”

“I do not think so”, Lestrade said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because”, Holmes said simply, “it is entirely possible that Mr. Michael Bullen may have sent his son directions by post or telegraph.”

Our visitor groaned. 

“Why did I not think of that?” he asked.

“I suggest that you get someone to call round there first thing tomorrow”, Holmes said. “I would say to go yourself but we all know how territorial some forces can be over such matters; the local inspector is Aldridge who we both know can be more like that than most, though he is sound enough. If you could bring any findings to us then perhaps I might be able to help you further.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I was a little late getting to 221B the following evening, as I had had a client who had been convinced that her unusual flu symptoms meant that she was dying of some strange tropical disease that she had just read about in one of her magazines! Much as I might have wished that to have been the case, I was eventually able to persuade her that she was going to live (at least long enough to pay my bill!) and had decamped to Baker Street. It warmed me probably rather more than it should have done to find Lestrade there and visibly impatient at having been made to wait for my arrival before being able to avail himself of my friend's genius.

“Nothing!” the inspector snorted impatiently. “Sod all except for a note for the laundry people.”

“Do you have it?” Holmes asked.

Lestrade looked at him as if he had gone mad but was (just) too polite to say it.

“Yes”, he said cautiously. “Why?”

“May I see it?” Holmes asked, holding out a hand. 

Lestrade looked at him in bewilderment but handed over what was definitely a note. Holmes placed it on the table between the two of us, and I read it:

'Mrs. Whitbury-Smith:  
First basket: Wash at fifty-one degrees for thirty minutes and thirty-two seconds.  
Second basket: Wash at (unreadable) degrees for seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds.  
Third basket: Wash at forty-eight degrees for sixty-six minutes and five seconds.'

“Even without that missing number it's as clear as mud!” the inspector snorted.

“It looks like the missing number ended in a zero”, I said. “I can just make out the end of it.”

“Did you check up on this?” Holmes asked. The inspector looked at him incredulously.

“Check up on a laundry list?” he asked. “For God's sake, why?”

“Because this tells you exactly where Mr. Michael Bullen hid the Meryton diamonds”, Holmes said calmly.

We both looked at him in amazement.

“Er, how?” Lestrade asked after what seemed like an eternity.

“Do you know what time the son is due back?” Holmes asked.

“His neighbour said he always comes back from his sister's off the six-thirty train”, the inspector said. “He gets home just before seven, regular as clockwork.”

“It is imperative that this be waiting for him and that he be aware that his father is being held”, Holmes said firmly. “Lestrade, what way did Bullen turn when he left the bank?”

The policeman looked confused at the question but answered readily enough.

“Right, towards the Square, sir”, he said. 

“But you then lost him for a time.”

“We did, sir”, the inspector said. “All those crowds....”

“And you found him before he reached his home”, Holmes said. “Where is that by the way?”

“Tallis Street in Blackfriars, sir, just over a mile away. We got him coming up to his house.”

“So there were no sightings of him until then?”

The inspector looked at him curiously.

“What are you driving at, sir?” he asked.

“Is Mr. Paul Bullen a smart young man?” Holmes asked, ignoring the question.

“He goes to college, sir.”

“Does he have a gun?”

“Sir?” Lestrade looked positively alarmed at the question.

“Does he have a gun?” Holmes repeated patiently.

“I believe that he does, sir.”

“Then I am afraid we will need as many armed officers as your station can stretch to, although God willing it will only be for one night.”

“I do not....”

“You wish to re-acquire the Meryton diamonds?” Holmes asked archly.

“Sir!”

My friend reached for a piece of paper upon which he scrawled a few lines of writing. I only hoped the constable would be able to read it; Holmes' chicken scrawl made all those jokes about the average doctor's handwriting look superfluous.

“I believe that the establishment closes at nine”, Holmes said. “I expect the attempt to be made soon after, almost certainly tonight.”

“But surely you would want to be there?” the inspector asked.

Holmes smiled.

“This is very much your call, Lestrade”, he said gently. “The doctor and I will be waiting not far away, as observers.”

Not far from where, I wondered, but the inspector was taking his leave, presumably to hurry off and put Holmes' plan (whatever it was) into action.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We could hear Big Ben striking a quarter past nine down Whitehall, as we stood behind a pillar at the north-eastern corner of Trafalgar Square. The National Gallery was long closed down and the little church of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, named from a far-off time when this area was still undeveloped, had just been locked up for the night. I uttered another prayer of thanks for my new coat which was keeping me as warm as toast; it had been part of Holmes apology for his remarks about my good lady wife (she had received a most generous voucher for a ladies' dress shop).

“I still have no idea why we are here”, I said, “except we are not that far from where the robbery took place.”

Holmes chuckled.

“Perhaps I am being a little unfair”, he admitted. “I will extend a clue to you. The note I received from an inquiry I sent out just after Lestrade left us confirmed what I had suspected, namely that young Bullen is only attending college part-time whilst working at the offices of the Ordnance Survey.”

“The government map-makers”, I said. “How does that help me figure it out?”

“Do you remember what was written on the laundry list” he asked. “Perhaps it is an unfair question”, he went on before I could answer, “because the information was set out in such a way that only someone like the man who will shortly be visiting the church over there would know.”

“Or a genius consulting detective”, I said dryly.

“Very true”, he said immodestly. I resisted the urge to swat at him.

“How do you know that he will be going there?” I asked.

“Because if you re-interpret the first two washing instructions, you get two sets of Cartesian co-ordinates”, Holmes explained. “Fifty-one degrees, thirty minutes and thirty-two seconds north, and nought – it was indeed a nought - degrees, seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds west.”

I stared at him, stunned.

“And you just happened to know that those were the co-ordinates of the church?” I asked incredulously.

“Of course not”, he said, “but from the latitude I knew that it had to be somewhere in central London, if not the exact centre. Also it is a common fact that one angular minute is approximately half a mile of distance, which meant the place had to be about three and a half miles from the meridian at Greenwich. It had to be west because east would be in the middle of the Thames. It is probable that Bullen Senior took this route home planning to lose any pursuit in the crowds. He hid the diamonds in the churchyard, thinking to either retrieve them later or for his son to do it for him if he ended up inside. The biscuits and box were all arranged beforehand.”

“Ah”, I pointed out, “but the churchyard is quite large. How would the boy know where to look?”

“Because he was told”, Holmes said calmly.

Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle, almost immediately followed by three policemen emerging out of the side-gate dragging a very reluctant fourth man with them. A fifth man followed them, then turned and came across to us. It was Inspector Lestrade.

“You were right, sir!” he smiled. “Exactly where you said they'd be. We put some fakes in there earlier and he went straight to the grave to get them. Thank the Lord he didn't bring his gun.”

“Fortunate for him”, Holmes smiled.

“So how did you know exactly where his father had hidden the diamonds?” I pressed. “

“The list was addressed to a Mrs. Whitbury-Smith”, he said. “Mr. Bullen Senior chose that gravestone because the name was, he hoped, unique, then communicated it to his son who, correctly deciphering the messages on and inside the box, came to retrieve his father's ill-gotten gains. The third set of washing instructions were obviously a blind as there are only sixty minutes in one degree.”

“Lady Meryton is going to be over the moon!” Lestrade grinned. He looked at Holmes uncertainly. “Are you sure that you do not wish to get the credit....?”

“Absolutely sure”, Holmes said firmly. “I expect that you have a lot of paperwork to complete at the station, now that both Bullens will be being charged. Come, Watson. Let us find two cabs, one to return me to Baker Street and the other to reunite you with your good lady wife.”

We bade farewell to the constable and left Nelson to his silent watch.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
